Chapter twenty-five
Finger-Pointing
Aside from the recent death of the socialite and Bill Thatcher's bludgeoning, there had been no murders recorded in North Hampton since its settlement. Freya did not watch the news unless someone had the television set to a news channel, nor did she read the newspapers, so she did not know that Molly Lancaster was officially a missing person until Sal happened to mention to her the following week that the boys who were with Molly that night at the bar had been brought in for questioning by the district attorney.
"Wait - you're telling me they think those boys had something to do with Molly's disappearance?"
"Where have you been all week?" Sal scoffed, shaking the paper at her. He was better after his bout with what had turned out to be the flu, but his cheeks were still red and his eyes runny. He also seemed to have lost part of his good humor. When he returned to work he was short-tempered and easily annoyed.
Freya didn't answer and continued to mix coltsfoot and columbine together for a new concoction. Bran was still away; they had been able to speak to each other briefly the other evening, but the connection had been bad and all she heard was gurgling and hissing from the wire. He felt farther and farther away from her every day. She had tried hard to avoid seeing Killian again, although he appeared in her dreams every night. If only she could see Bran again, but he would not return for a few more weeks.
She read the headline story: Derek Adam, Miles Ashleigh, Jock Pemberton, and Hollis Arthur had been brought in for questioning. Witnesses who were at the North Inn the night before the Fourth of July told the police that Molly acted out of character that evening, dancing wildly and "flirting with every boy in the place." She had left the bar with Derek in Jock's car with Miles and Hollis in the backseat. Through his lawyer, Derek declared that he and Molly had gone down to the beach to make out, but that he had left her there because she told him she had to meet someone else at the beach, a story that no one, including the reporter who intimated that the boys were lying to save their skins, was likely to believe. The boys ranged in age from nineteen to twenty-three years old, rich college kids whose families had deep North Hampton roots. The lead police investigator on the case, Matthew Noble, would not make any comment.
"Those poor boys," Freya murmured.
"Boys?" Sal huffed. "They're gonna fry. Who's going to believe they just left that girl down at that beach? Please, you know they killed her and hid the body. They're guilty."
Freya looked up. She hadn't realized she had spoken out loud and wondered why she felt sympathy for the suspects. Then she realized: she believed them. Molly had taken an Irresistible potion, a concoction that could never bring about any harm or violence to its taker. Freya had seen to that when she made it; it came built in with a powerful protection spell to make sure this sort of thing never happened. Whatever happened to Molly that evening had nothing to do with the love potion, which meant it had nothing to do with the boys she met at the bar.
She was certain the boys were telling the truth, that they didn't kill Molly. But how could she prove it?
She tried to recall whom she had seen at the bar that evening, if she had picked up anything, any sign of distress or intent, but she wasn't Ingrid, a seer, someone who could peer into a person's future, into their lifeline. If Ingrid had been there, would she have seen what type of darkness would soon claim Molly? But who knew if Molly was even in danger? She was an adult; what if she just decided to disappear on her own? It was possible. Could everyone just be jumping to conclusions?
"I think we better put these away for now," Sal said, picking up the laminated potions menu. He read the newspaper over her shoulder and pointed to the damning sentence in the middle of the paragraph, reading it aloud. " 'The girls said that there must have been something in Molly's drink that made her so wild. Some kind of crazy potion.' Hear that, Freya? Some kind of crazy cocktail from the North Inn made her act slutty, they're saying. They'll come after us for sure."
"No, they won't." Freya shook her head, aghast. How could anyone believe that? Besides, how could anyone think a cocktail could lead to her disappearance? It was ridiculous. Wasn't it? She tried to remember what happened that night - she could picture every moment clearly, saw Killian enter the bar, snuggling with her a little too close behind the counter; she saw herself making the potion, Killian by her side. Could it be possible that she had put in too much vetiver root? And if she did, what of it? It wasn't a harmful herb; it was only there to enhance the drinker's desirability. It seemed highly unlikely that it could cause any harm. Of course, magic was unpredictable, and there was a possibility that something might have gone wrong. But she had seen nothing in the boys' spirits that night except for raucous enthusiasm for the evening's delights and the usual schoolboy excitement caused by the presence of pretty girls. If one of them was a killer she would have seen it. She always did. Except for Bill Thatcher. No one had solved that particular murder yet and the police seemed to be as clueless as they had been when it happened. There was no hope for his wife, either. Maura's family was talking about pulling the plug.
All right. She had to try harder to remember. Who else had been at the bar on Friday night? It was all a blur; there was a blank haze over her memory, perhaps a side effect of the guilt she felt for cheating on Bran. She felt sick, like she wasn't herself. She should have paid attention. Maybe if she wasn't so busy making out with Killian all weekend she would have noticed something. Now Molly had disappeared and boys whom she had joked with and liked were under suspicion.
"You'll see. We should keep our heads low. Only a matter of time."
Freya felt a darkness settling into the room. "You think my cocktail killed her, Sal?"
"Course not," Sal sniffed. "I don't know what you put in those drinks, but they are potent. Lots of people been talking, mostly about how good they make them feel, how they've met the love of their lives in our little bar. But I think people here are going to want an answer. And those are rich boys. Their parents are going to find every scapegoat they can. You be careful, maybe take a few days off."
Chapter twenty-six
The Worm Turns
A week after Freya was encouraged to take an unwanted leave of absence, Ingrid was contemplating quitting her job altogether. And without it, what would she have? For Ingrid, if work was unbearable there was no reason to live. She never had much of a home life in the first place and she missed her sister's sparkling company. Before Freya met Bran, Ingrid could count on her sister for movie nights, the occasional dinner or two. But ever since the engagement Freya was hardly home, even with Bran away in the city or on trips so much. Ingrid wondered about that; she thought Freya would miss him more, but she had the same red cheeks, dreamy expression, and late nights whether he was in town or not. Maybe they were having a lot of . . . what did they call it? Phone sex? Ingrid shuddered. Lately Freya had seemed out of sorts and agitated, however, so maybe the separation was beginning to take a toll.